The Shining was re-released last year to the big screen, and through a series of misadventures, I ended up going to what felt like countless showings of it. Other than being impressed with the sound design more, more than anything else, being sequestered in what felt like numberless windowless rooms, watching the same story play out again and again, I think the movie’s true terror opened up to me. Now, I’m not suggesting that you drive yourself to the brink of unquiet desperation by endless repeated viewings of The Shining, but if you want to take part in the protagonists’ claustrophobic, doomed ennui, there’s no experience like the verite sort.

This series originally started out as three films, the two already featured, and The Shining to cap things off, but it’s a leap year, my dears, and along with an extra day, I decided to treat myself to an extra dollop of depression and cover one more ode to ugly love with Von Trier’s much-maligned, impossible to ignore Antichrist. The story is oh-so-simple, and it’s all the uglier for it. An unnamed man, credited only as He, and his wife, She, engage in passionate sex while their infant son plummets from an open window.